State of Illusion
by the-she-celt
Summary: The combination of a shipwreck, the aristocracy, a pair of harem trousers, a dangerously attractive showman-engineer-journalist-inventor-magician-Iris hman, a rebellious gymnast and mistress of fantastical seduction, and a shared desire to rob the rich and feed the starving poor around them in Chicago of 1873. My first multi-chapter fic and a gift to all my friends and supporters.


Her favorite part of her body was easy to identify: her belly was flat, toned, and stretched seamlessly over her skeleton, smooth enough to highlight the handles of her hipbones and the soft shadow of her lower ribs, utterly different from the soft, shallow belly of any other commonplace upper-class aristocrat, or the smooth, well-oiled, supple skin of any of the dozen other girls in Madame Andrea's Shelter for Young Women. She twisted from one side to another, admiring the ripple of muscle under creamy white skin. Every flicker of visible strength held a promise of what her body could do, and the sight of her reflection sent a thrill racing up and down her spine—it was not, as every other girl tossing hate-filled glares at her tight silhouette imagined, merely another play for cash and coin, though that was certainly an added bonus.

Facing forwards again, she planted her hands on her hips, cocked her head on one side, and squinted at her outfit. It was her most daring outfit yet, and it had cost a year's worth of savings, but it was absolutely worth it. She didn't care if Madame Andrea had a fit—she was _not_ giving this ensemble up for that tired pink gown that she'd worn for the past two and a half years.

"Three minutes—Sybil!" came the hiss from a corner. Poppy fired a glare in her direction. "Three minutes!" she snapped again. "Get to your spot; your guest is at the back door!"

Fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at Poppy's hips sashaying away beneath a thin layer of cotton petticoat, Sybil snatched up her mask and raced on tiptoe out of her room, down the hallway, dodging the girls swarming out of their own chambers to greet the night's first crowd, and scrambled up the ladder to the tiny hole high in the ceiling. It was so cramped around her long limbs that despite her fit form, she had to hold her breath and wriggle her hips madly to fit through the tiny trapdoor. Once, the massive hole in the wall had terrified her; tonight, she carefully seated herself on it and set about readjusting her attire, poker-straight back facing a drop of dizzying height to the ground floor.

Friday nights were always popular at Chicago's most famous brothel; honestly, Madame might as well tear down the 'Shelter for Young Women' from above the ornately carved front door—no one was fooled by the sheer façade. Peeking over her shoulder, she watched unseen as men of all sizes and shapes flooded through the door into the main room, listening to their delighted calls and endearments as they embraced the girls positioned around the room, each carefully robed in a loosely laced corset and sheer, fluttering petticoat, hair tumbling freely about their bare shoulders. They giggled, laughed, flirted, wrapped slim arms around their customer for the night and drew them into the shadows afforded by the rich velvet curtains in shades of pink and red draped over the walls or down onto the cushion-heaped ottomans, sofas, and love seats scattered about the rug. Any who had not been booked for the night floated about with trays of delicacies and drinks, feeding the treats to enamored men, surrounding each with two or three scantily-clad visions. Madame was a shrewd entertainer, Sybil mused; she knew how to create a man's heaven with the scents of perfume and warm skin alone, how to shape a world of magic and seduction that they would never want to leave. Sybil had had her fair share of nights working the floor, teasing and coaxing and caressing until her aroused customer drew her up the stairs and through the gleaming door marked with her name, collapsed and let her work her magic on them. She was glad to have switched roles, to be seated high above them, a goddess observing the mortal world, untouchable and untainted.

Turning away from the sights below, she checked everything one last time. Her new outfit had the great privilege of being, though unseen to the casual observer, thoroughly practical: swatches of sky-blue silky fabric were bound snugly around her wrists and extended behind her to a thick iron support beam in the roof, leaving enough slack for her to control the complicated pulley system mounted above her head. Matching fabric was wound tightly around her neck and breasts, binding the uncontrollable parts of her anatomy to the shallow hollows of her ribcage. Her hair was wound about her head in a tight plait, and only her dark blue eyes peered from the silver-edged mask fastened with ribbons amidst her dark, unruly curls. But the crowning glory of the ensemble was the pair of sky-blue trousers fastened snug and low on her hips and ankles, billowing loosely around her legs with enough transparency to entice and delight. Her collarbones, arms, back, and midriff were bare, ridged with valleys and mountains of incredibly strong muscles. Methodically, she tugged on the straps, rolled her shoulders, and twisted her neck from side to side, loosening every muscle, then glanced back over her shoulder.

"Ready?" came the whisper of Abby Cummings, the tiny technician-in-training, as she adjusted the pale blue screening of a brand-new electrical spotlight.

"Yes." Sybil flexed her fingers. "Are you?"

She nodded, curls bouncing, just as a hush fell over the crowd below. Sybil straightened her back minutely, dropping her hands to her sides.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" came the sultry call of Fern, drawing a round of wolf-whistles from the crowd. Sybil rolled her eyes—men were so obvious. "Please, gentlemen, I am not the main attraction of the night!"

"Oh, you'll do just fine for me, sweetheart!" A man shouted, pulling laughter from the others and even a trilling giggle from Fern.

"Please, gentlemen, behave yourselves! We have a very special guest here tonight, one who is, I believe, celebrating his birthday tonight, and who is therefore entitled to a very special treat…"

"Lucky bastard!" came a shout.

"My parents were lawfully married when I was born, thank you very much." came a rather indignant reply with just the hint of an accent. Fern giggled again.

"You've earned quite a present tonight, Mr. Bellasis. Gentlemen, tonight Madame Andrea's is thrilled to present, for your pleasure, Diana herself, Goddess of the Moon!"

Amidst a smattering of applause, Fern descended from the first landing of the staircase, leaving only one figure standing there. Men and women alike withdrew to the walls, leaving Bellasis standing atop the landing. Sybil took a deep breath, watching as Abby flicked a few switches. The warm, golden light from the wall-mounted lamps receded into blackness and for a moment, there was no sound in Sybil's ears save the thrum of her heartbeat.

The cry of a flute rose, wavering and piercing, ancient and mystical and magic. The snap of a light and Sybil closed her eyes tight against the glare as she was lit up, sitting on the curve of the moon, awash in blue-silver light, only a silhouette of curves and limbs to the audience below. Slowly, head tilting backwards, the melody of the flute filling her head, she let her hands drift upwards along her hips, breasts, neck, into her hair, and up above her head, raising her arms. Then, a grin dancing across her lips, she tossed her weight backwards and plummeted to the floor below.

A chorus of shouts rose as she fell, flipping easily once, twice, thrice before, upside down in midair, she locked both her bare feet and her arms, twisted behind her back, around the silky cords and slammed to a halt with her back arched, face inches away from the startled face of her customer, Bellasis.

Summer-sky- eyes, rich and blue and wild. Honey-dark hair spilling loosely across a broad forehead. Skin of crystallized brown sugar, tan from the sun's lavish kisses. _Delicious_. Her stomach flipped errantly, her pulse stabbed drumbeats into the hollows beneath her ears. Faintly, she could hear applause, the whirling tune of the flute from the quintet in the corner, but far louder was the caress of his breath against her cheeks. From above, the loop of a sky-colored swing of fabric descended onto her bent knees, cool soothing her exertion-flushed skin. Every muscle in her body ached with the strain of holding herself still, but she never wanted to move again. His eyes…they were as solid as marble, as merry as sunlit waves, holding her gaze effortlessly. Her heart thumped against her breastbone. Her lungs stung. Carefully, she allowed her lips to fall apart and released the captured breath to gust across his face, making him blink as though roused from slumber. Blinking herself, she felt her cheeks tense with a wide smile: _oh, this is going to be __fun_.

Releasing the cloth from her fingertips, though not her feet, she ducked into a controlled flip and rose to her full height, inserting her feet into the swing and straightening her legs, baring herself for his examination. His eyes moved slowly from hers across the planes of her face, squinting as they strained to discern the features behind the mask, over her lips, down the column of her neck. She squirmed ever so slightly as they moved lower, tracing the contours of her body that men always found appealing, tiptoeing along the trails of her muscles, caressing the line of her trousers with their gaze. He grinned at the sight of her harem pants, eyes flickering back to hers again, smiling with such pure admiration that she couldn't help the pride sneaking onto her face. Planting her hands on her hips, she propped on foot on its toe and cocked her head, as though silently asking his opinion.

He actually laughed aloud, and her cheeks grew warm. He had a wonderful laugh; rich and deep. It sent the most sickening of butterflies trickling through her stomach and she tossed her shoulders back, head high, fixing him with the most icy gaze possible for having dared to laugh at her. She was no mere woman, deserving of his laughter—she was goddess of the moon, immortal and icy, forever virginal and untainted. She bowed to no man.

She watched as the irises of the man before her darkened, almost to black. Skillfully extending one leg to the side and then swinging it behind her, she launched the swing into motion, swinging past him and turning to keep her eyes on him. His gaze never left her as she picked up speed, swinging back and forth past him, always maintaining eye contact. His stance shifted constantly, watching as she swung higher and higher before she grasped the fabric above her head with both hands and at the height of her swing, leapt and twisted, kicking her legs out before her. She flew past him with legs extended, then flipped to grasp the cloth between her feet and arched her back, soaring back past him with both arms extended. His own rose in response, reaching for her as she slipped past him like quicksilver. Thus was the nature of her act: the goddess deigned to descend to earth, enticing men to reach for her, slowly gravitating closer and closer to them, coaxing men to fall in love with an immortal being until she vanished with the setting moon, always remaining uncaptured by any mortal man. The most they could wish for was a grasp, a touch of her face, before she vanished where they could not follow.

But this man, this Bellasis, he was different, and it was beginning to irk her. Time and again, flipping, summersaulting, hanging from one hand, one leg, she soared past him, and time again, he remained still. There was no denying that he wanted her: she knew how to read men, and she read desire in the shade of his eyes and the rigidity of his body. But he simply wouldn't move to catch her—he forced his arms to remain by his sides and spun to watch her, but refused to touch. _Why?_ She couldn't understand it.

Just as she was growing increasingly desperate, he finally moved: his fingers snagged hers, rough against soft, for one moment. But then he did something no man ever had before: _he let go_. His entire body was taut with yearning, eyes wide-blown and dark, and still he let her go, pivoting on his heel to watch her swing into a wide, lazy circle with him as her epicenter. Something flickered inside her stomach as she stared back at him. The flute warbled on, the cool of the silks fluttered against her skin, calm and serene and untouchable. But the blood was stoked in her cheeks, her fingers were twitching in their grasp, her skin prickling under his gaze. If he would only look away, she might be able to compose herself—but he wouldn't. He never took his eyes off her, and it was slowly driving her insane. She wanted to burn—she wanted so desperately to descend, to touch him, to burst into flames with him and burn in hell. He was changing the story, reverting the roles: he checked his desire and let the goddess come to him, drawn by simple gravity to flame, rather than chase her only to lose her. And damn him for it, but with every flicker of his ice-blue eyes, she wanted him that much more.

The tension was so thick she could have sliced it with her pinky finger. They hovered around each other in a lazy waltz, bound by electricity and moonlit magic. Drifting closer, she let her trailing fingers graze the back of his neck. His head turned quickly towards the inside of her arm, dropping a kiss that set her skin afire. His eyes darted up to hers, his hands gripped her hips, and with one strong push, he sent her off again. A curse rose to her lips—what the hell was he playing? Goddesses didn't fall for mortal men. She shouldn't want him like she did.

Her skin flushed, temperature rising as her momentum gradually slowed, letting her hover above the ground in ever-smaller circles, dipping closer and closer to him as he watched her fly. Relief, soft and warm, slipped over her when he deliberately stepped into her path and let her drift dreamily into him. Palms met, sliding in a palmer's kiss, fingers racing up arms to shoulders, holding tight. She shuddered at the feeling; his shirtsleeves were rolled up, the top buttons of his collar open, and he smelled _wonderful_, like pine and fresh air and chocolate. She held his chest between her knees, still higher than him, and literally bit back a shriek of frustration at the last droplets of the flute and the feeling of the swing beneath her shifting, carrying her upwards, away from her mortal, gliding inexorably out of his arms. No way in _hell_ could she be satisfied with _that!_ Wriggling, she flipped upside-down once more, hanging from the swing by her bent knees, arched her back to bring her face up to his, still floating away but just close enough to cup his cheeks in her palms and bruise his lips with hers for one too-brief second. The cinch tightened, his fingers digging into the back of her hands fell away, and she soared upwards into blackness with the roar of approving applause carrying her back to the sky.

"That was a really good one." Abby said matter-of-factly, shifting the lighting once more to golden softness as Sybil, breathless and sticky with perspiration, flung an arm through her hole and crawled through. "Are you alright?"

Sybil sprawled on her back on the dusty floor, chest heaving for breath, staring up at the cobwebs on the ceiling and feeling that one kiss sear its way through her lips, into her bloodstream and further still, straight into the very threads of her heart.


End file.
